Poem: That second Eric Clapton concert I went to…

We were
at an Eric Clapton
concert – ie: A White Room – none more white
when it comes to the blues
and there was a bit of
argy-bargy going on. Some
dude was pushing another
dude and then my dad got all
up in the grill of someone –
chest puffed out – and I’d
never seen that before.
So I had to join in too. I was
worried about the old man,
didn’t want to see him go
down like that. Sconed in the
face. Clocked while ol’ Slowhand
was playing Wonderful
Tonight.

So next thing I’m up
in the face of a guy too.

Don’t know what I’m going
to do. But I’m there. To
protect the old man.

To see if I can let my size
suggest I might have packed
a fight. But I have never thrown
a punch – and by any look at me
I’m far better at packing a lunch.

Anyway, the gig was a fucking
blinder! And how the hell did
that happen? EC gave it all away in
about 1970 or at least ‘72.
He phoned it in for years – fucking
years, absolutely years. Got good again,
for a bit, in about 1990. Which was the first
time me and the old man found ourselves
at an Eric Clapton show.

But this was nearly 20 years on from then.
And Old Slowhand was very nearly Old Sock and
most certainly old hat.

And then, when anyone least expected it, a
vital show – five songs from the bloody Layla
album. His final triumph.

So this was a good save and I put it down
to the clean shave.

No neck-beard. Just a few
cum-face guitar solos.

And he was the third
best axe on stage at his own show that night.

Derek Trucks and Doyle Bramhall II owned
the show.

Just like my dad reckons he owned the guy
who was trying to own the guy over some
White Boy Blues matter, some drunken-dumb
natter. And I stepped up because I thought I’d
give misguided arrogance a go. And it’s a shame
to now place this as any kind of boast but I
play the elegant-bluff like it’s my own final
passage from Layla.

Further on up the road…as the people filed
out from the clinic they were sad not to have
heard Tears in Heaven. These heathen-cunt-losers.
These jerks. These sopping, sodden fucks.

My dad was basically shadow-boxing, punch
drunk. Owning the streets, planning
a song in his head. His own blues swimming
in the red.